Saturday, September 15, 2007

Settling In

I haven’t posted anything for a while. That’s really not uncommon for me, but this time I have a legitimate reason—a legitimate reason other than a diabetic coma, I should say.

As my last post explained, I got a new job in a new city and had to relocate. Part of this relocation involved me staying in a motel for several weeks. The only computer I had access to was an old laptop I found in a dumpster behind a suspicious-looking pet shop (any pet shop located next door to a restaurant reeking of wok-fried hamster meat is suspicious). This particular laptop was powered by static electricity. I had to rub stray cats wrapped in tinfoil on the motel shower curtain in order to keep the computer charged, and nothing I had to say was worth all that trouble. I should also mention that, for some of this time, apparently, I was off on a fantastic and violent adventure with Captain Smack.

Anyway, I’m finally moved into my apartment and have my trusty computer back. Since it runs on the tears and humiliation of people I berate for my own amusement, I no longer have to worry about running out of juice. (Hey! You over there: Your mother’s a faggot and you smell like a hamper full of syphilitic skunk diapers.) Here’s what I’ve been up to in my absence from the blogosphere.

New JobThe new job is the only reason I moved. It was a lot of trouble, but you can’t put a price on job satisfaction. I am now the number-three sledgehammer operator/viscera scooper at Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium. It’s one of the few slaughterhouses left in the country that dispatches the livestock with actual human-operated hammers; although, some of us just use big rocks or backpacks full of auto parts to kill the cows because it’s less trite than using a big hammer (it’s a decision we stand by as artists). The pay is excellent, and every second Friday, I get to take home all the jowl meat, tarp scrapings, and udder tips I can carry, no questions asked. Every now and then, Yakov, the owner, gets wasted and tells us jokes from the old country. Most of them involve Catherine the Great blowing a horse, but his delivery is spectacular. Plus, if you mention communism, he spits on the floor and punches his wife, who then gets up and counts the toilet paper rolls in the office bathroom.

New ApartmentI concede that the new apartment isn’t as nice as the cave I used to live in, but it’s close to work and not without its charms. The building rests on the banks of an old creek where Californian Stink Ape (Bigfoot’s less civilized cousin) sightings are common and covens often gather to perform inverted bunny crucifixions. Technically the neighborhood could be called a ghetto, but I feel pretty safe because I’m heavily armed and the police usually show up three or four times a day to clean up after the gang-related massacres.

One thing I’m not used to is having neighbors. I’ve managed to introduce myself to most of them already, though, and they all seem pretty nice. They were mostly rude at first, but I think they warmed up to me when I showed them how to clean a machete blade with the sterile stomach acids of the recently deceased. That’s the kind of helpful information they don’t teach in schools any more, which is just a goddamned shame. The guy who lives in the apartment below me, Fritz, gave me a hard time for making too much noise when I first moved in. The encounter went something like this:

Fritz: “What the hell are you doing up here, asshole? Assembling furniture?”Me: (Holding a hammer and a mangled bookshelf from IKEA) “Um, yeah.”Fritz: “Well can’t you do it quietly?”Me: “You can hear me hammering these tacks into Swedish particle board over that German techno you’re blasting down there?”Fritz: “That’s not techno, you heathen. It’s my art!”Me: “It sounds like Hitler taking a screaming shit in a gay discotheque.”Fritz: “I combine the speeches of the fuhrer with industrial music to convey a message. My art suffers because of all your noise! Now shut up or I’ll tell the landlord.”Me: “How about you get the fuck out of my apartment and go back to burning books, or whatever it is you’re doing, so I don’t have to kick you in the stomach until your eyeballs pop?”Fritz: (Screaming in German and flailing around, threatening to take a shit on my floor.)

And that was the second time I jammed a claw hammer in a Nazi’s eye and threw him off a balcony.

Speaking of the landlord, he’s a nice Middle-Eastern fellow. He runs the apartment with the help of his three wives. He has a satisfaction-guaranteed policy when it comes to the apartment.

“If for some reason you unhappy with room, you can camel-whip one of my wives for five minutes. Then you eat goat meat and drink tea with me while she wash your feet.”

There’s also this guy in the building who everyone calls Dr. Jim. He comes by my door every couple of days and trades me free oil change coupons for my old insulin syringes.

“We, uh, can’t let kids step on these things, you know, or, like, let the garbage men poke themselves. I’ll, like, um, take these things to the hospital … where I work … with other rich doctors.”

I don’t know why a rich doctor would live in such a crappy neighborhood. Come to think of it, I don’t know why a rich doctor would wear plastic bags for shoes and drink swimming pool water, but a lot of rich people are rather eccentric.

Someone stole the Toyota emblem off the trunk of my car, which is really the only problem I’ve had so far. Luckily for me, the gang of kids that stole it tried to sell it back to me the next day. Had they known I’m not above beating the shit out of little kids, they probably wouldn’t have taken it in the first place.

The CityThe city is not unlike San Diego in many ways. There are stupid people everywhere, for example. The city is smaller than San Diego, however, and it seems like more people here ride bicycles. In fact, so many people ride bikes, they basically control the speed and flow of traffic. They don’t obey traffic laws, either, and they seem to get some kind of perverse joy out of cutting off anyone earth-hostile enough to drive a car (even though the majority of other cars on the road are hybrids with obnoxious yellow stickers making that fact even more apparent). I don’t know whether the locals are just used to it or afraid of the helmet-wearing douchebags on ten-speeds, but they seem to take this abuse like a fatalist takes a twelve-baboon gangrape: with slovenly indifference or mildly disappointed acceptance. It has also occurred to me that these bicyclists have forgotten that no matter how wimpy a car is, it’s still a goddamned wrecking ball on wheels compared to a huffy with “Kucinich ‘08” stickers all over it.

I have been reminding the cycling-hippy population of this simple fact by knocking as many of them off the road as possible. At first I would sort of just nudge the really rude cyclists with my car until they wobbled enough to hit a curb and flip over, but since none of the authorities seem to give a shit about injured hippies, my vehicular assaults have become less inconspicuous. I’ve taken to throwing bricks at them and hitting them with lead pipes as I drive by. Sometimes I’ll even pull over and help them up just to steal their helmets. It’s not like I need any bicycle helmets or anything, but I’ve always wanted to be a poacher and I’m working my way up to elephant feet for trashcans and rhinoceros horns for, well, whatever the fuck people want to use rhinoceros horns for (Hindu monkey god erection idols?).

There’s not all that much to do for fun around here, but thankfully I’ve never done much of anything anyway. Sometimes I’ll go downtown and throw rocks at the Asian transsexuals with the landlord’s uncle, Amir; kick people playing acoustic guitars, pan flutes, and bongo drums at anti-war protests; wear a “God hates queers” shirt to services at the gay Methodist church down the street (What? It’s performance art—like Johnny Knoxville from Jackass taking a fart machine to a yoga studio); and I often hang out at a supposedly haunted Toys ‘R’ Us in a nearby town, hoping to see some ghostly activity. The walls haven’t bled or anything, but I often get reports of the ghost—who was an apple farmer before he died—grabbing ass in the ladies’ room. It’s hardly the Amityville horror, but I take what I can get.

All in all I’m adjusting rather well to my new surroundings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bait some stink ape traps with kitten meat. It’s a well-known fact that creek-dwelling Californian Stink Apes can’t resist kitten meat.

14 comments:

Well I'm glad to hear that you're all settled in now, Morb. Your new job sounds awesome. I can't imagine there is anything more pleasant than working with meat all day.

You moved up north to the Bay Area, correct? I envy you. The four years I spent at Berkeley were some of the happiest of my life. I initially moved up there to attend the college, but since I was too dumb and not ethnic enough to get in, I ended up sitting cross-legged on a dirty blanket, selling incense, perfume oils, and doses on Telegraph Ave. It was a great experience (apart from that chronic scabies infection that occasionally pesters me to this day).

Hey, the next time I head to Grass Valley on one of my weed buying expeditions maybe I'll stop by and say hello. We can drink one of those General Foods International coffees and you can introduce me to Fritz. Your description of him made me swoon. What could be more dreamy than a Nazi industrial musician?

prunella jones -- I do enjoy my new job. Not so much because I enjoy being around meat, but because I like killing things. Sure, I kill stuff all the time on ninja duty, but that's all secretive and I never get credit for my really impressive kills. Whenever I smash a cow head so hard its spine pops out of the back of its neck and flings spinal fluid across the killing floor, however, I get high fives and "Yes! That kill was tits, dude!" from all of my friendly co-workers. I'm hardly an ego maniac, but I think we all enjoy the satisfaction that comes from being recognized for our accomplishments.

I don't know if where I live is considered the Bay Area, but I am somewhere between SF and Gilroy. And I did get lost on assignment once in Redwood City (they had a stubborn cow that refused to die and managed to crush one of the hammer operator's prosthetic legs) and found myself near some kind of body of water. I would have called it a bog, but I think it was classified as a lake.

You know, I was told I wasn't ethnic enough to sit up front on one of this city's busses. Some guy named Daljeet threatened to break the fire hoses out if I didn't go sit in the back. I thought that was rather odd, but at least I know I'm not alone in my persecution.

I could introduce you to Fritz if you’d like. You'd think after what I did to him he'd hate me, but now that he has to wear an eyepatch, he's taken far more seriously. He's told me several times that I saved his career. He keeps trying to get me to go out for beer and brats with him, so I just keep telling him it's not kosher.

neko -- If I get a Stink Ape, I'm going to take him to all the houses of skeptics out there and say, "What say you now that the creature you said didn't exist is crapping on your lawn, bitch? Next, I'm going to bring some goddamned aliens to your house and let them probe your mother with their alien fists--and those guys wear bulky rings and big, digital watches. I hope you like alien spit, asshole, because on their planet they don't have synthetic lube, and they sure didn't stop at the gas station to buy any on the way over to your place." Something like that, anyway.

I'd also teach the Stink Ape to ride a little bicycle and key profanities on hybrid cars. Maybe get him a "The missing link is in my pants" t-shirt to wear.

Your new city sounds similar to where I grew up...except...You hit bikers-We hit tourists.You kill cows-We ti them(loads of fun when you're trashed.)You know people that tells jokes about a woman blowing a horse-We now someone that actually did it.And...I haven't didn't hear anything about Daddy/Uncle.

Also, what the hell is a Hindu monkey god erection idol? That was classic!

Those bicycling hippie-types need to get with the program. They don't know how good they have it. You know, in some countries you can run down a hippie and then sue them for damages to your car.

By the way, do you think you could put in a good word for me at Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium? I have a lot of experience in the slaughtering field, although I've never worked with animals before, but how different can it be?

At this point in my life I am really, really envious of anyone who enjoys their job. Why wasn't killing things presented to as a career option back in high school? Fucking guidance counselor! He told me to study hard, as college was the path to a brilliant future. So now I am educated, but I owe thousands and thousands of dollars in student loans. And I am stuck with a job dancing in my underwear in front of a bunch of drunk frat boys in order to make enough money to both live on, and have extra to shovel into the gaping black abyss that is my debt. Thanks for that great advice, Mr. Anderson!

BTW Morb, maybe you could give me a price list for your ninja services? I was just wondering how much you might charge to pistol-whip the shit out of someone? I know it's probably pricy but what the heck, I'm in debt anyway.

drunkbh – Awesome, you’re not dead or something. It had been so long, I kind of figured you had been kidnapped. In such a situation, I imagined you would have resisted for a long time until you eventually succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome and moved back to Uganda with your kidnappers to join their cult as some kind of partial deity.

I don’t actually know what a Hindu monkey god erection idol is, but the Indian fellow that installed my cable, Dhalsim Chutpak, said my apartment was incomplete without one. I went out and got a Chia Pet instead.

Eeew. You know someone that really blew a horse? That’s disgusting; although, I suppose it’s one way to keep your uncle from making out with you.

captain smack – I tried to sue a hippy one time. That fucking imbecile spilled bong wine on my Playstation 2 when he let himself into my living room to retrieve his hacky sack. When my lawyer served that son of a bitch, he served my lawyer with an order from the “Mother Earth Court of Love” to mellow out. This summons was also, apparently, good for one scented-oil aura massage. My lawyer and the hippy now live together in Vermont.

I put in a good word for you with Yakov. He says he would “very much like to meet hat-wearing Jesus-beard man with funny talkings on the internets.” If your beard rivals his wife’s and you’re able to laugh at his jokes while his assistant kicks a baby cow to death, he’ll give hire you on the spot. That’s a pretty sweet deal, really, because most new employees start off as tarp wipes, udder evaluators, or drain blockage removers.

beefcake almighty – That costume will kick ass for sure. I never do much for Halloween myself, but I think a costume will be mandatory at work. I think I’ll just wear some black BDU pants and put a fake bullet hole on my forehead and say I’m dressed as Jon Nodtveidt.

—awkward silence—

What? Too soon?

I shall have to add Corona Skunk Monkey to my list of critters I need to catch and exploit. I’d never heard of them before.

prunella jones – Life is pretty stupid sometimes, I know, but things will work out. If I hadn’t gone to college, I never would have even gotten an interview at Yakov’s place. You wouldn’t think a four-year degree would be necessary to get a job hammer-bludgeoning cows and other lower life forms to death, but everyone has a college degree these days.

If you dislike stripping so much, have you considered getting a job reading to the mentally feeble and otherwise hilariously retarded? It might not be as glamorous as your dancing gig, but the retards drool less than drunken frat boys and are just as likely to give you crumpled wads of dollar bills—all you have to do is make “choo-choo” noises when you read them books about trains.

As a ninja, I don’t get to pistol whip that many people. I’m usually asked to disembowel, desanguinate, or otherwise mutilate my targets. Every now and then I have to make a death look like an accident—like the time this one banker died in a horrible hyena mauling accident. The police never did figure out how all those hyenas got into a penthouse on the 111th floor of a New York apartment building. I think they ended up telling the papers it was due to faulty migratory patterns of the African prairie chicken caused by global warming. Suckers.

Anyway, I’m non-union so my prices are pretty fair. I’d be willing to give you a pretty good discount, too, because I like your blog. Also, Mossback Misanthrope has asked me to knock fifty bucks off the invoice if you introduce him to Mrs. Danvers. I honestly don’t know why he wants to meet her. I mean, it’s not like I have any control over the guy or anything. If I did, he’d be wearing pants and spitting tobacco juice in a cup instead of on the floor.

Oh sorry for the bitter rant the other night, Morb. I guess one shouldn't blog while paying bills and drinking wine. I think I'm over it. Mr. Anderson is safe (for now anyway). But it is good to know that you'll give me a discount if I ever find myself in need of your services.

I think Mrs. Danvers would like to meet Mossback, even though she denies it. Between you and me, I think she has a bit of a crush on him. I mean, she doesn't go around screaming, "Satan's spawn!" at just anyone you know. For her, that's some pretty outrageous flirting.

prunella jones -- No need to apologize about the bitter rant, pru; this is the place for that sort of thing. It's kind of like getting wasted and yelling at your shrink, except it doesn't cost anything, and, unlike shrinks, I don't draw pictures of you naked. I might, however, draw rather unflattering caricatures of Ted Kennedy, though. It can't be helped.

I don't know what Mrs. Danvers sees in Mossback. He's not what you might call refined--he says silverware is for "gay homosexuals." He's not very smart--the doctors think he might be able to read in a few years if he quits skipping classes at the Learning Annex and lays off the white lightning. And he leaves something to be desired in the personal grooming department--he hasn't cleaned under his fingernails since they grew back after that explosion in '89.

Mrs. Danvers best be careful with all that Satan talk. She might start attracting Blasphemous Misanthrope, and she wouldn't want that. (I am aware that Blasphemous Misanthrope doesn't follow the predictable pattern of alliterative names that all of my personalities have had thus far, but Blasphemous Misanthrope's real name is Milton Misanthrope. He just changed it to sound tougher.)